The Excruciating Evolution

19 Sept 2001

......the vigil of a saint........

No one will sit and glory in the thought of

  their casket, 'cepting voodoo pilled dope

dogs lapping the wondrous putridity of the

    gutter seeking redemption. Jacobins roll

on the scene and claim rolled heads

    purge it all, but if the reflection is taken up

the most messianic fit in the box.

Even Eli Casque, inventor of the casket....

        Eli Casque, whose great grand son lives

In a refrigerator carton under the bridge,

Had a better send off in his mind funneling

Profits into the underground

  to purge his soul for the packaging

    of his clients before his trade

      boomed in the Civil War.

Casque’s fathers followed the commanding

   standard of the plague to make a nice fat purse,

Lincoln made him a place, Eli feeling deeply the meat

    he sported about as his coffin, in an oriental sense,

       waited to slough it off to birth.

Now these Western Climes seen as a tomb,

   we maggots lost sight of the terms

Of the sarcophagus.

Following the plague many a box-crafter

   surfed the wave of death in austere times

      swooping often past sunset should a prospect

elude his sentence, and when the pine was

   all milled the lucky ones who did not outlive

     the craftsman often were interred in cedar.

We plant a many in a war,

In a hurry, but as war looms

On the horizon only the most circumspect

Build their own eternal home,

Facing the reaper most foot drag.

---------------------

If America wears this shoe,

We maggots then must feast

Sumptuously, dance with a

Giddy reaper.

Perfidious lesson?

Legions of our ghosts can bear proof,

As you work to secure your position.

Feel the arctic breath of this spent simile

As already in the hall of settled history.

As Caesar lead his gods from the heavens

We lead all this to past images in the stars.

To old Hades and beyond with

Lamia pronunciamentos,

        cry the newly fletched,

We fly on as once you flew,

   Aping your custodian farces since

Last the celestial train left the station,

   Feeling weighted by the hip pocket

So the alignment of those bodies shall

    Not crack our planet’s crust.

Front and center proscenium, the boards

Pliant like a diving board,

    his face is kohled with this war and tantric tantrums,

Winging over the land mines if enraged,

Tornadic, sickly, near unconquerable with

The plucky cocksureness of youth.

Countless nights his capital crimes grimed

The walls of your room while you flipped

   about on balled up

        sheets scratching

Phantom fleas, the mind’s rich soil unploughed,

     imagined fantasies of his death merely his distance.

  A full midnight

To dawn of these wishes never comes

   close to one pull of a trigger,

        plunge of a blade.

The escape from his spectre was the only contrition,

  the frail red wind of dawn puzzling, alluring,

   faint as solar wind

on the most errant asteroid,

    or ideal mathematic solid you can not hold

         in your hand.

The futile kind acts of the noble

Are the only true acts,

We are changed with songs of steel,

      Hymns to bondage, and neglect.

Let’s leave these truths sober

  And find the revolving disco festive lit

    Revolving on a spire, no grave pleasure

In mocking the fruitless ruling sports

  Of all buried kings, or refit their blameless

    Positions and perfumed swine.

We pull the banner back to a glade

   And pad the grass near the pond

    In a Cretan new year’s bucolic eve,

Breathing a moist clean sea air,

   We put on coat after coat of visages

     Of failed ontogeny, as the soil grew thick from

The cedar falls, olive falls,

 this night’s raggy foliage,

  a glow of all our efforts.

We dream past Cumbra Viega somehow

Lurking, yet nourishing trees like these

Naked above the leaf fall, jagged Picasso

Branches jitter the moonlight like

Beethoven drove on past the rococo

Flourishes to a new dream,

      ...over to the

Lit ways where windows frame the

jig and froth of dizzied animals bogged

in their moments still momentum fearing

jettison from the rutted plays,

An alien sense and thought enters

      Like trace poisons from the water system,

The ill once thought to be the humdrum of

     The housekeeping grates the bone,

The once new song now a prison.

Sporting midday on the river’s bluff,

 Picnicking while the busy wonder

   how they are half spent,

    inhaling a newly concocted oxide

      in the breeze,

lost serpentine dits,

 and a belief in the

  solidity of the sine.

Myopically the haze is golden, yet below

And through it jaggedly pokes the trestle

Of the childhood now rust furred, curled

Steel orange grates fallen through,

Teetering between two major national

Imperatives, destinies etched like

an old boxers face is etched by the glove.

The new span that goes to this land

Painted and busy receives the monition

Like the half-life of a continuous dream,

Similar to a song parody on a new media

Begging amnesiac bliss for the grossest errors.

The first bridge will be washed down

the flow and gone before we once again

Mount this bluff with the same vision,

A new virtue of redone moral never

opening the parental tomes, abjuring

The guiding sanctions of the fathers,

Chaining fate to the grub in the tree stump.

Note the petrol trucks flying over the

Concrete piers sliming the lane middles

With their tears, blown tires and hitchhike

Girls.

Old Apollo run his race now and

the lunar silver irredesces still stratus

drowning out The Day’s tune.

That musical air thumps dull though music

Accepts a magic in a second then dies,

The day run out like a drink from a watercan;

Dwell on the thought of Sisyphus

Dithering an escape plan during toil,

Recall the eve when you first accepted

Sin.

Oxymoronically an unhearable past

  thunders co-conspirator with you in the

Eighteen-wheeler crime, wheel on wheel,

Heat seeping from the terra-cotta way

   works a faint mirage with the moon,

Too submissively, acceptingly, to ever

Rouge our cheeks with it all.

Over that horizon, Hoover!

Over that Horizon, Jim Falls?

Over that horizon, Grand Coulee.

.........Interludium.............

All the acre feet of potential

 firmly felt in the mind,

  acre feet, kilowatt, leagues deep,

     electric,

...........a soft dream fell into.....

Your freedom is preserved

 descending each pearly tread in total balance

  from within

     with no chalcedony embrochettes to

deceive the eye on the chalcedony descent,

   mother of pearl of aqua cast almost

      misty recedes at your puffs of breath

           eyes large wet searching their

outermost corners,

nostrils delight in the highest temple smell

    incense spell,

and seeing all solid illumined

   within externalities

feeling celestial and sexless angels appear,

but they are females of your species

       they float to the embarcadaro standing

on the slightest of crafts in diaphanous robes -

You want to join them all but alight in one

          diaphragm bark to quest for the waiting

demigod, or sought for illusory Goddess these

seaworthy maiden nymphs promise

just off shore, where the liquid luminescence

             lights itself

with no umbra or chiaschuro penumbra

in a wakeless instant of distance

they take you and

....She rises dripping of the aqualuminesence

dripping the aqualuminesence from her

like water, you are already wet expectant

drinking a deeper shade

of beauty, loins effulgent expectantly

along with the virginal guides of the craft,

and they and you nearly reach immortality

at Her sight - -and you faint into the virgin's arms.

They lay you on the shore,

on a marble floor

polished columns supporting only

the most diaphanous silky milk blue

wisps of fabric,

The sun seems a vague possibility as you

open your eyes to them

and the dawn....

Stroking the cropped Caesarian locks

tugging so softly the scalp.

Through their light robes

light as the wisps of the fabric on the columns

above, the small maidenly snowy breasts work

in a close unison with arm and shoulder.

You had a ride, you saw Aphrodite

arise and fall

and fell into their care in the temple,

and lived this day at their bidding...

Celestial odors of female - her annointed

spouse and,

their small weak and urging white hands

work you back to life,

They want you badly

and hum imperceptibly to a man

who has seen Love unmasked,

who must make the work

of Love for them so immortality in the human mind

perishes not

for them, or for you, as well, so

Love lives on - - and to conquer again the

imperishable bliss

the enrapturing longings

of the human soul,

so love can glow on

for us all

and fill us with awe filled

peace.

........the sweet dream ends as they often do

with a frightful confused panic as you wake.......

Some days were prophesied, seeming never

to come, then that day comes... dreaming

upon rising up from the bed

the waking dream of the unsuccessful,

the dream of those denied by the

exchequer, dreaming that recurrent

wakeful dream briefing with a vain

hope of a sunbeam.

Breaking from,

the slumber,

Breaking from the

Slumber to

advocate,

Vouchsafe you as the ape,

Vouchsafe you the ape and child both

singing in the

Ear of the pleasures of now, and long gone

kin

learned to swim the sea,

Lose hair and grow

fins

Feel the ribs now free from the depths’

pressure, but silent in knowing.

Vouchsafe this feeling, knowing.

Deos half-past voiced silver sanctious,

Mercuric charcoal liquid speaks unworded,

Canting the medium where dogfish alert in

Prophetic monition to Toms and Hucks,

Bucolically rapt 'tween soaring banks,

Float the water seemingly barkless,

Wend with the flow stupefied, sighting the

Generator vents, rooks with no seeming

End tailing gas, their watery ribbon bearing

Earth to burn far from the spies on the video

Spectrum dreaming successful ignorance.

Your minds lost syllables revolving

midnight

Cursives of worth each calm hour

streamlined

Like cetacean motion just below the moons

Silver intrusion in the shallows of your

flight,

Ears ring from your dialogue, self justifiying

Babble, a moving newness of idleness,

Communication taboo, no dispatching you

your devil friends to Olympify the hierarchy,

mere aping the kingly quiet of it’s creator.

.

Behold the quietus, quit vibrating the

Quartz in the timepiece,

strike a Diminished note, a grouping of aged vistas

And clumbsy troughs in the waves of

Established cognition, hold a scepter and rise.

Toasted beans and stunted corn dot

sun done

fields as in a bizarre mirage,

the townsfolk

stray glance past their images in the smoked

shop windows, by god,

they are still alive.

Bar-stools enthrone slouch back lushes

each their own encanted tone mixing

in the curls of navy blue smoke around

the warden's altar, epitomizing a parliament

like the swallows bag packed in autumn

circling a gleaned field, some pecked up

sunflowers seedless below, their own aviary

of whisky and foamy.

*****************************

Wait..now..now awake!

Assured this is familiar earth, a sameness of soil.

I can see them from the field drain lip

above the lens convex where it cropped

as if a mounted sculpture above the hearth

. where the clock is expected.

.

A pewter silverglow sceptre breaks a pane

to a land daylit to a tone of straw gold, strewn

with red maple falls, the fairer sex there

mimics a tongue of waterfalls and pools

where water was just caught, edenic.

By this season they have rethatched their

homes above in the baring branches

in the lower spreading of giant oak,

the skyey surround at their feet

strangely a too full navy on the marges,

protected by the height,

excepting a fatal misstep.

Even as a total stranger they know you,

they greet you with coy titters, young voiced.

.

Here there are only women and they

great all genders with an embrace as a custom,

customarily rubbing the floating ribs, unlocking

their hugs you faintly reek redolent of clove

and frankincense and drink the water they

captured from the barrel they keep from your

cupped hands as do they, the excess wetting

their breasts under their robes, wetting

your neck and chest. All their eyes are the same

almond black diamond sparkle around you

their eyes all sparkling the same height

above the deck all stand upon in the branches.

.

The welcome is that reserved a messiah,

and a kinship is seen through your

round violet eyes at the incipient moment

of vision....you have embraced, but are they

the assemblage of women plucked from the

spectrum of the past?

... Their skin color waxes from gold

to alabaster faintly and continuously lit, as you can

now see, from that horizon of navy not the glowing

overhead bright skyey where the helio once

was the focus, oddly a knowledge they never

feel the obsidian blink of cerebus enters

your consciousness.

.

Your hostesses have shucked and ground the

acorn to a flour in a perpetual faint breeze and

mixed it with a wheat from their field and ergot

from the ditch, all ground consistent for

this native bread of life all break, they

sing in moderation a tune from a new erato,

perhaps exiled from some bordello as the voices

are full of allure and a feeling of the lessening

of the bodies pain yet without it's total absence,

the sound impossibly borne not in the air

but a spirit in your mind. The pain of existence

merely tempered withal and the spine revolts

nearly spasmodic like that of a child's held,

enforced penitentially by the parent, with

a epiphany, a revelation of comforting restraint.

A tiled maze of escape hatches, some laddered

some stepped, lead for the atrium to the maze,

tiles bear mahjong tile pictograms and figures, first

impressing the beautiful anemone or dahlia mostly

on the eye, but each is distinctly different ......

two pharoah moths pass in a straight line the

way you mean to go up the staircase, they are most

definitely seen, but the eye cannot fix on them like

a meandering bumble bee, feeling you climbed

a flight of stairs, you look back for the women and

see an infinity of tile staircase in faded persimmon

and lime custard, crooking the neck back up

you see they are not ahead either and the ascent

goes on, the moths long gone, memory gone

you stand on a deckplate of tiles with no way

down.

Your eyes remain wet and liquid, focused, admiring

the structure neither blinking or staring bathed in

yet apart from the tiles where there are places for

holy icons that are vacant, the pharaoh moths

appear again in a glint in the corner of your eye,

flying out of a gold trimmed porthole down the way

and following

you look out at the bearing branches around, above,

and below gnarly barked onyx.

.

Looking out the navy horizon continues the

ubiquitous illumination in it's palpable way

from all about and the light is now known

as the light at your back on the tiles, with

your shadow unfound you find the reception

committee is gone.

Filled with a fresh and never before experienced

physical endurance, more rested than before

the climb, you can remember everything

and the time you were a child and chased the

fleeing squidgin from the bush and chased it with

little inky Frisky your pup,

you and the pup after that

fluttering mirage of a bird from hedge to hedge,

hallooing your baby-sitting uncle, Frisky

barking the way in the afternoon

October fog far from the port's

foghorn klaxon. The squidgen was up bared elm

while the red mist drove you on as a silent

foxhorn, free from pain and worry in the chase

as your movement from the sun buried your

own shadow. You remember the sound of

your breathe in your ear and the story book reading

before the chase, the frog on the lily pads,

each karoak rippling the story book pond to

the egrets legs and around the trunk of the

downed tree on the shore. Other than hearing your

own breath the intellect is vacant but not bored.

.

This reminds, clarifies, defines the paradox

of the Elysian day, how is the pleasure scaled

against the sound of your painless thought less

breath in your ear?

The business that you had, if it was really

any business before, if it had a mission that was

worthy, seems to be a liberty to return to, a place

somewhere beneath the highly studied breath,

a freedom to return to regardless of the pangs

and twitches and shadows, it is a womb

or reality, a Pre-Diluvian sea, a zero-point

blip in space most dense in answer, all pangs

bites and twitches concentrated to the point,

you long to return to the motivational ague.

Turning back, peering across the platform's tiles

another porthole is spied trimmed chrome

luminous to the point of being muddy bright

squashy feeling like a mouldering apple under the

the tree, it's light smoke curled cloud churn yet

usable for you to see a crooked shed roofed porch

with a chewing tobacco lit sign in the front

window, half pints and cans decorate the

gravel parking. for the cars, the ground hard

enough to bear the motorcycle stand, propping

them upright, leaning them as if making a turn

at speed.

The bar's paint peels, one beams bends under the

porch roof defying a later crash of the dominoes,

silver cone speakers thump disc generated sonic

tease at the roof.

People come and go as if hunting

Michealangelo's ghost for a scent of good

in the music's sound never heard in a cathedral,

unshorn workmen shake hands or drop

an openhanded pound to the shoulder,

feeling their last day had come sisters full

habited wayfare to the tavern, a most unheard of

evangelizing as they know they will be

excommunicated for acting out of place.

The sisters stare in icy eyes and promise

paradise. The odd pairings cast thick ink

shadows the light exhales on them.

.

That which is jealous rages in your soul and

inflames your inner perceptions, your sister will

not bring you the wanted salvation, light your

way with love, there is no lens to bring her

eye upon you.

We can ask who claims possession of that

unnamed behind your eyes, that same which

wafts the camphor from the firs on a zephyr.

How eagerly they claim their friends,

Oh saint, and bring forth their scorn.

Shall we invent these shadows and right

off the world's inheritance, broadcast nettles

on glowing fields of grain in one flight,

and when done feel a score is settled?

Yet find another than these two tasks,

and in death find which souls basks?

It lies in that monster pride I sense

which you chose to first cover with pretense,

torching your own house to forestall

a lesson from me which did no damage at all.

When it began I saw your end

in drunkenness of the red wine flow,

which way did my song make you tend,

to wisdom and peace, or sorrow?

You cannot answer neither

as you regard this weather.

.

Holy, propitious and procreative

she rise from the soil of the oldest Pantheon

in untold beauty and sweetness.

Made from frosty victory, the thin

lips curl with enchantingly mystery

as foreign as a vista yet to be seen.

Her skin fresher in the dawn

glows faint amber, loose curls rain

down adorned with buds of sun,

an entombed glory forgot, new won.

That endless train of courtiers

some bendy as snakes, scream to be dubbed.

I watched her birth as long as Sodom

watched the flood, and, unqualified hid

from her view that she would kill my pride

as the guilty villain might hide from

the night's revealing aurora.

Should she have a payable cost or worth

in any coin, she would be mine, and though

only a cyclone procured would be worth enduring

'til the love is blued to a cosmic froth.

As life is, it is a certain cruelty to suffer

beatification's perfections, winning a pleased

countenance momentarily. To know

the loss of that moment is coming

is utmost sanity. The wall's thickness

is counted in hours down a highway,

chasing the hart like a juvenile nimrod,

she runs to an unknown nook,

beating the finest snares.

Yet I find solace that I reek less ruin

than some men, that base deceiver there

would melt the arctic caps to have her.

"That's an angel," he says squinting arduously

he cannot see the rain.

"What will you try today?" he softly lisps

as he departs on pigeon wings, feeling his words

as remorsefully as the bird regards its droppings.

Each of the spoken concerns pounding the heart's

desire, and linger like a sin on a soul

in the pits of hell.

I tried her on the day of her birth,

more judge yet husband still, when

her beauty was the first sun disc on any mortal

eye, reflect-eating her rays, but he can scurry

wing singing more petty conquest, remorseful.

He will feel he can pray for the reunion somewhere,

someday, carrying a lost treasure 'til

his stars wink brown rays and the earth is drowned.

That's a lone wolf building a pack

of damned souls, that twisted ear hearing

doom in dawn's song, but to temper his

ire with a sugary blindness for his throng

positions his minions to find a fool to sport.

He will name their fool "not you", fluffing

that reassuring dream pillow you rest your

head upon. It shall be believed that the goddess'

song is his song, and the throng will be pushed

though the revolving door worked like the

sculptor slices off the clay, they move on the

trade current far from the frame of the shore

tricked into stillness, shamed into inaction under

futility's flag. It is not perfidy if entempled logos

and all need agree.

The pipers sing of holiday destinations of

contentment for those of weighty purse.

"There is warm sand on the marge of continent's

crust and there the burden of necessity

blunts the lifting crust, there the memory is foolish

and details percolate through the beach. The

watery horizon is smooth and whole, not the

twisted noodles in the skull, and your vile hunt is

over, this release savored perpetually."

There is no need for lumpy cumulus process

to be studied, the soul backwashes the mineral

catchings by gravity and tide brings in no

breakers to squeeze through the jagged rock.

This miracle performed the new nimrod accepts

a kinship with the prey, the plots unravel somehow

unstudied and seem less violent. Yet there is a

creak in the newly emptied head,

the lodestone nose, from the pull,

the pull that caused the rebirth, the pull

pulls on the sack of crud, truth on the palate.

Now having danced the piper's tune

it's back at a slothful pace, fallen arched,

like a boy dragging a book bag, hardly

a brave and noble warrior, or a king who

had rounded the mountain crag, it's back

to the office above the manufacturing floor

to observe the conveyor belts move the fabled

modern products, the sweet smelling aerosol

body sprays, the false eyelashes, the glossy

periodicals of fashion rumor and flash, the

balms of convenience and comfort all with

shyhigh markups, all the goods made to purify

ennoble and sanctify.

Let us not digress from our pleasing Caliban

jerked from paradise, not quash the muse

out from him, let's not make our servant ill, let's

fill him with our truly noble spells, the cut in

spiritual cycle already on the mend.

........need to rouse this to arms........

The vacation is over......

you have graduated from school

you have been run through boot

you have a part in a new theatre.

We all know he is quite lame, accepting in

a fashionable gymnasium, it is only there

that any fashionable tasks be put on display,

the only lessons taught those of the formalized dance.

How is this grand manager to be impressed,

plucked from the dream factory to learn a new trick?

Maybe the towel has to be thrown in

as an old theatre of action closes down.

Our play we were forced to watch even as we acted

it through hit the final squaking chord, awful beyond excuse.

Sweating in the patched costumes only replacing

the old pins scattered on the stage with the new,

the bleating in the pit urged us on from

emotional bailout to bailout,

the Caruso brothers bellowed hard,

the fields were gleaned assiduously

by some with honest hunger.

We have not dreamt it yet a curtain falls.

A deal was not sealed and the heartfelt affections

were those of our kin watching us redfaced, yet clapping.

The great speckled bird was to have flown

with the patronising word, the joy was half-joy.

We have yet to view ourselves as we really are,

not hearth warmed and frisky, but looking

over a frozen windswept cliff before a dark chasm,

our minds are quieted to numbness by far off laughter.

This moment is the first that we hear,

as natural born great players not the tenor

of the device but a logos that pursues

like a red-eyed black hound.

There is no natural wisdom

only the wisdom I read from this ancient coin

and in the cry of the warty witch.

A pregnant nothing remains for all the reconstruction

done with the bombs and whippings

and snickering, yet only now it is

more felt than ever we seperated by our

essential gulfs and contrived chasms of the

proscenium window and looking glass,

awaiting a propitious sign that all our

meanings are not a black and white film negative

of the Judgement Throne’s visage of Mercy.

Among these bones and ruins it is where

we can rejoice in the perfected mission that is not ours.

The inevitable concurrences stand out from

the secular cloud as a righteous obligation,

the voice speaks through the flower laden altar

unflinchingly delivering a bone deep pardon.

The future welcomes us with the

grand old prospect of benevolence wide and far,

the working state the full bloom of charm,

the struck chord will be renewed harmony.